A blog where those who are lost come to be found, not necessarily found out. A blog where you can be silly, and expect the same in return. An occasionally serious place, a constantly changing place. It's your Happy Place, and mine. So, let's put on our aprons and let's get busy.

An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpiewhispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Friday, February 12, 2010

Come On, Baby, Light My Torch

While I'm supposed to be working, I just happened to glance at "Yahoo! News" and saw the headline, "Gretzky's Not Lighting the Torch." Now, while I'm supposed to be working, I'm going to blog about that, even though I've already done my duty for today (see below for a post that's all about a gay cruise-a-palooza!)

While I know that it's fun for the Vancouver Olympic Committee to shroud the identity of the cauldron-lighter in secrecy, I've decided that it's time to stop all of these shenanigans and tomfoolery and just get it out there in the open.

Ready?

I'm lighting the fucking thing.

That's right. Mr. Apron hisself. Yeah, I called up VANOC and said, "Listen, Tedd-o, stop jerkin' me off and telling me it's Natascha McElhone using her left hand-- I'll do it for $76 mil and a 1963 VW Beetle that's had a frame-off restoration and retrofitted shoulder seat-belts."

That's what I said to him, and he was like, "Okay, but my name's not 'Ted'."

And I said, "Fuck you, Horrace-- now it's $77 mil."

Then he hung up, but I'm pretty sure it's a done deal. Now, hold onto your spoiler alert, because this is how it's gonna go down in Vancouvie tonight:

I'm arriving at around 6:30pm EST at Mountie Provincial Airport under heavy guard. From the airport, I'll be whisked to the Stadium Olympique du Provencal au de Toilette Faux Francais in a 1987 Plymouth Caravelle (the Canadian version of the thoroughly unpopular Plymouth Gran Fury) and I will be dressed as Chester Cheetah to avoid suspicion from curious onlookers. At the olympic stadium, I will be taken to a private area where I will be cavity-searched for drugs and stolen Olympic memorabilia and then my entire body will be hot-waxed and spray-painted gold. I will then be coated from toe-to-former eyebrow in Shed's Spread Country Crock Light.

Seven minutes prior to the torch-lighting ceremony, I will be summarily fondled by the members of the German Women's 2 Bobsled team who will then attach meathooks to both of my shoulder blades. To prevent an unfortunate scatalogical gaffe from occuring on live television during the opening ceremony, my asscheeks will be sutured shut by Olympic physicians utilizing a sterile needle and steel banjo strings.

I will then climb into the mouth of the sole remaining British Columbian ruffled stork after shoving the Olympic torch up its asshole. It is a little known fact that the British Columbian ruffled stork actually has a vestigal appendage shaped just like a human hand in its asshole, so this part of the choreography is bound to proceed flawlessly.

Just as the stork is 300 metres away from the torch, I will receive the go command from Olympique Centrale to tickle the stork's gag receptor, which is shaped exactly like the human clitoris, and the stork will proceed to vomit me out. As I fall, I will need to exert superhuman strength, grabbing onto the stork's beak while I pirouette below its taint, summarily grasping the burning torch with my other hand. I will then drop the torch into the cauldron, setting it ablaze in a haze of Olympic glory and showmanship unequaled since the last Anita Bryant concert.

Details on how I will survive remain sketchy, but I was assured that it will "work itself out."